The Witching Hour Visit
by ArsenicAngel
Summary: Halloween has come around, and an afghan, discarded book, and a camellia blossom make the evening an interesting one for Harry Potter.  Implied slash, SS/HP


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of the Potter-verse, and am only borrowing it all for the purposes of non-profit fun.

**A/N:** Harry/Severus is the pairing that got me into writing fanfiction, and I haven't written it in some time. This is something I hope to remedy now, because I rather miss seeing them together. So a happy Halloween to all, and here's to me actually writing some more of these two.

* * *

Winter had seemed to set in early around number 12 Grimmauld Place. It was only Halloween, and Harry found even his strongest warming charms useless to defend against the chilly air. As the hour grew later, Harry rummaged around within an upstairs storage closet, in hopes of finding a forgotten blanket laying about. It had been three years since the war's end, and other than himself, no one had been inside the aging house since it had been used as Order headquarters.

Still, he held out hope, and luck was on his side. Tucked away on a dusty top shelf, Harry found an afghan blanket and waved his wand to charm it clean. He was about to close the door again when his eyes caught on another object that had been hidden beneath the blanket. Harry had to lift himself onto the tips of his toes to reach the shelf again, his hand falling on the cover of an old, discarded book.

If it had ever borne a title, the letters had become too faded with time to read. All the same, Harry carried it with him to the small sitting room of his home on Grimmauld Place. The fireplace was crackling much to merrily to suit his mood, but extinguishing the fire would allow the chill to seep back through the walls.

Taking a seat in the single chair that he kept placed near the hearth, Harry threw the afghan over his lap and settled in. He laid the book open, still in search of a title or some indication of the content. Instead, he found only two lines of scrawl on the first page, old scribble that was faintly familiar, but unreadable after so much time. The next pages, however, were marked with print; somewhat faded in places, but still readable.

Mostly, it seemed to be some kind of work of fiction, explaining the lapse in the barrier between the living and the dead on All Hallow's Eve. But it was a way to pass the time, and on this night most of all, Harry still had trouble sleeping. It was nearly two in the morning when he finally drifted off, the book still splayed open across his lap and his head lolling onto one shoulder. He was vaguely aware that time was passing, a strange occurrence for any dream.

When he lifted his head and saw a man leaning against the door frame of the room, however, Harry knew he was certainly sleeping. Severus Snape had died all those years ago, alone on the floor inside the Shrieking Shack. He could not be standing in the shadows of Harry's home and watching him now. "You're not here," Harry mumbled, his voice gravelly with sleep. "I laid flowers on your grave this morning."

Despite the shadows, Harry thought he saw the corner of Severus' lip twitch into a smirk before he spoke. "Perhaps that is why I am here, Mr. Potter."

"To thank me for the flowers?" Harry asked, watching as his former professor moved closer, looking in better health than Harry had ever seen him. Such was in the nature of dreams, he supposed. If there had been any question in his mind whether this was truly a dream, it was answered when the dark man plainly smiled. Severus Snape never would have directed such an expression at him.

"In a manner," Severus said, coming to a stop in front of Harry's chair. Beyond the gentle brush of lips that came next, Harry remembered nothing in the morning. He had moved to his bed, although he did not remember doing so. What clothing he'd been wearing when he fell asleep had been strewn around the room, rather than piled neatly in one corner as he usually did when he undressed.

Sighing, he tugged the sheets aside to rise, when his eye caught on something laying across the pillow beside him. A single, white camellia blossom was laying on its surface, and Harry paused as he plucked the flower up. It was pristine, as though plucked straight from a bouquet such as the one he'd taken to Severus's grave the day before. Perhaps it was only his imagination, but Harry swore a faint scent of earth and sandalwood clung to the delicate petals.


End file.
